


how do you keep it quiet?

by Mortsleia



Category: Mortsleia
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29107350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mortsleia/pseuds/Mortsleia
Summary: There are things he couldn't ever bring himself to talk about.
Kudos: 2





	how do you keep it quiet?

* * *

.

_There is this very early memory that I have in my head._

.

.

In it, I am gripping on to my father’s shoulder like my life depended on it. He was holding me with one hand, and only because his other one is swinging a sword across his enemies’ neck. There was fire everywhere, and the sky seemed so vast to me as it burned down the stars from its constellations. His hold was firm, so secure while the horizon was drenched in red around us. Still, I struggled away when something dripped on my face. The sharp copper scent so close by shook off my drowsiness left after a long sleep.

My father asked immediately, sounding almost apologetic. “Did I wake you?”

I think I didn’t answer that one. Too busy looking around us, wondering what had happened during the night that I woke up to this scenery, until a particularly hard tremor staggered our standing.

“Oh?” The voice that approached us from behind was rough like a thunderclap, and yet so incredibly tender when it held my name. “Come here, then, Klaus.”

The one that called to me towered above us, although the way it clouded the sky was more of a protection than a threat. Like maple shade on a dry summer noon. It then bend down, everything else that was not herself folded down into the figure of the mother I know as she took me off my father’s arm. Her hand was hot, and the same copper stench was rubbed on my clothes even more.

“We’ll reach the capital soon. Do you want to lie down a bit?”

I think I didn’t answer this one either. So they kept walking along the road, with me held close in my mother’s arms, leaving a red carpet lain out behind our steps. There were people in the fire, and there were even more that tainted my father’s sword with their blood, and still, only my mother’s slow hums resounded in my memory.

Instead of a terribly horrid experience a little child can have, this was a fond memory I remember of my mother. It was like the burning sky, the overly warm touch that smeared blood, the inhumane figure, and the gentle lulling of her voice amidst the storm of crumbling earth behind her back; all of those things painted my mother’s existence just so perfectly.

.

.

“Did I ever tell you I used to be the queen of this place?” Mother once asked, with me seated on her lap, while we were watching the dark sea line at afar.

We used to have a balcony garden, filled mostly with colorful flowers and small herb plants. There is a single-sized table set on the grassy patch, where my mother could always be found, with a cup of tea and a small pile of books by her side. And with my mother, you will also find me most of the time, when the dusk was rough or the night was burning and my sleep was haunted by the wailings from the soil of this land. This was one of those nights.

She continued, not waiting for my answer. “And then I gave the throne to your father when we got married.”

This story was told so many times, not just by mother, and definitely not by father who was too proud to be talking about his own love story to his child; but the servants told this story so many times when they are with me. Only the ones that were old enough to personally witness it unfolded, and were loyal enough that they didn’t leave their queen when she stepped down.

“I still remember when he was just a brat that was stranded on my hall. Talking about conquering this land like it was child’s play.” She was laughing, dry, almost bleak that it disturbed me. “Not even I dare to brag about one day putting this catastrophic nation to rest.”

“… But I do wish for it to happen. So we can one day unite, instead of endlessly fighting between ourselves.”

Her eyes looked distant, and I could almost see something else reflected on it beyond the vast unknown sea that spread before us. Briefly, I thought of my letter that crossed the sea on a falcon’s claw, wondering if it had reached its meant recipient. But the falcon wasn’t what my mother’s gaze was directed. It was about something less concrete, something more of a wistful reverie about earthly paradise residing just across this dark sea.

“I wasn’t able to do that.”

Mother had long since quit being a ruler, but there was always still trace of that crown on her head. There was the trace of defeat, not against father or anything that they fought against, but against the world itself. There is only so much a person can do to change the world, and wound her noble pride it may had, but there was peace in acceptance as well.

“Life here is hard, but it’s even harder if you don’t know how to surrender to hopeful thoughts and dream to have a better future.”

Her hand landed atop of my head, but her gaze was somewhere else, her mind hadn’t come down to where she is seated yet.

“Your father was my hope.”

I knew that much. My mother never made effort to hold back her words, and although it included the harsher part, it also reflected her affectionate side. The rest was her coddling me with how I too was her world and she loved me just as much as she does my father. I was a pretty sulky child, by memory.

“Didn’t he also always say so?” She then said again, night-daydream melting into fondness. “We are going to give you the world, but only after it calmed down its thorns enough that you can safely hold it in your hand.”

.

.

_This one; it’s something I’d rather forget._

.

In this world, there are only so many things you can hold at once. If what is in your right hand is making enemy of what is in your left hand, then you can only pick a side and let go before both of them are making you bleed out of your grip.

My options will both bleed me either way.

I wear my heart on my sleeve, and every battle we went through smeared it with more and more blood. Amidst the chaos and cries of what was supposed to be our victory, I was the only one holding on to my father’s remnant.

Is my justice worth crushing my mother’s hope for?


End file.
